


Angel of Mine

by silent_shell



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dirty Talk, Light Bondage, M/M, Marijuana, Oral Sex, Prostitution, RPF, Suit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 01:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11636079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silent_shell/pseuds/silent_shell
Summary: This work is inspired by a film called A Good Year(2006), but it would be absolutely no problem if you haven’t watched this film.It's a real-person fiction with a very different setting of Florent and Mikelangelo's background, identity, personality, etc. You can even think of it as a film played by them. I chose to do so because I wish not to offend them(since it's RPF) and I really like the character of Salieri in the concerts of Mozart l'Opera Rock in 2017 in Russica.I'm not a native speaker of English and have never been to any of the places mentioned in this fiction, so please forgive me if there's any bug and feel free to comment and tell me!Hope you will enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired by a film called A Good Year(2006), but it would be absolutely no problem if you haven’t watched this film.
> 
> It's a real-person fiction with a very different setting of Florent and Mikelangelo's background, identity, personality, etc. You can even think of it as a film played by them. I chose to do so because I wish not to offend them(since it's RPF) and I really like the character of Salieri in the concerts of Mozart l'Opera Rock in 2017 in Russica.
> 
> I'm not a native speaker of English and have never been to any of the places mentioned in this fiction, so please forgive me if there's any bug and feel free to comment and tell me!
> 
> Hope you will enjoy!

It was 9 a.m. in the morning. The thick grey curtains veiled all the lights from outside; subdued light of the lamp illumined one corner of the room, pouring the feeling of tranquil all over. The room was actually pretty messy, full of traces of Florent Mothe’s “crime” last night, with the smoke of weed lingering in the air.

Florent, in the black hotel bathrobe, lazily sat on the sofa and took another smoke, and then another; he looked like a gang boss, with a curled bang above his right brow and a thin layer of beard and mustache covered his chin and upper lip. Hopefully instead of a gangster who haunted the dirty and damp alleys, he was a CFO working in the office in Manhattan, which, to be honest, doesn’t make much difference. If he didn’t have the black mole near his lips on his left cheek, he might seem as courteous as other businessmen. Nevertheless, the rough appearance could not hide his handsome face, and it was helpful when he was commanding his staff or negotiating with clients.

He rubbed the light blue carpet with his feet, simply because it felt soothing. Out of the window was the New York City running madly with people’s ambition and greed as its fuel. Yeah, or else why people fucking come here? Why not spend your youth in Canada or New Zealand? People wanna get rich. Without money, they can’t enjoy anything.

But this was irrelevant for the moment. Only this quiet unawakened hotel room existed in Florent’s world. It was his temporary wolf den, and his little Bambi was sleeping soundly in the bed. He always called him Bambi in that when they first met he was lost in his beautiful big eyes, which looked so innocent that Florent often forgot he was a prostitute in Manhattan earning at least two-thousand bucks a night.

Walking across the cloud of marijuana, he sat beside him, and fixed his eyes on this elegant Italian boy. It was strange he still saw him as a boy since he was only 2 years younger than Florent. After these 3 years, Florent doubted whether he did age: the same curly brown hair, milky skin and long eyelashes. Sometimes Florent felt sorry that such a stunner was a poor hooker consumed by the wealthy bastards like himself; if he could get the chance to be a model, he definitely would be super popular. _People just get fucked by the fate sometimes,_ Florent thought _._ We can do nothing but react to it, or accept it.

He uncovered the quilt, cuddled with Bambi and started kissing his neck. Bambi was aroused and drowsily murmured:

“What…what the heck are you doing, Florent?”

“Give you a free morning call, baby. See how generous I am.” Kissing then turned to be licking and sucking. The pink suck marks Florent made last night had not yet faded away, and he probably would make new ones.

“Stop it…I don’t wanna do this right now…” Bambi muttered, but Florent ignored his reluctance and continued.

“You have no right to refuse, Bambi. I never sell anything free. You have to pay me back.”

With Bambi’s cute babbling curses, Florent had his morning sex. Then he quickly dressed up, ready to leave.

“Have a nice trip in Italy, Florent.”

Florent nodded his head and walked out of the room.

Still indulging in the dazzle of illusions under the effect of weed, Florent called a taxi, on the backseat of which he kept thinking of Bambi. He was a beautiful and smart creature, but never was he able to make him happy. Florent never felt real passion of him, and even, he never asked Bambi’s real name. He didn’t care.

Florent had many suitors in New York City; his ex was an actor in Broadway, and before that one was an intern architect in his company…nevertheless he couldn’t get deep into any relationship. He wanted to figure out why, but the vanity and fickleness exploding over the city always distracted him: skyscrapers, yellow taxis, suits and ties, Starbuck cups in people’s hands, jewels on women’s rings—everything’s so artificial! Even the Hudson River didn’t feel true.

Florent realized he probably got high. The taxi drove across the Brooklyn Bridge, heading to his home. After arriving, he checked his phone and called back to the real estate agent. He decided not to spend his precious one-week holiday in New York but somewhere more exciting and maybe more meaningful: Florence. And apart from touring, he had another thing to do—making a housing investment.

Florent had longed to live in Italy since he was a kid. It might sound unbelievable that Florent, a French immigrant in New York, loved Italy so much. In his childhood, there was an Italian man that he adored so much that he almost influenced Florent’s whole life. He, who Florent called as Uncle Paolo, was his father’s best friend and the one who chose Florent’s name.

His memories of childhood were full of the quarrels and fights between his parents, but Uncle Paolo brought him lots of happy times. He told little Flow about Ancient Rome, about the carnival in Venice, and the gorgeous countryside in Tuscany… As a result, even after his parents divorced and his mum took him to New York, Florent still learned Italian at junior school and exchanged in Florence when he was at college. It was a country with the balance of both romance and austerity, the wonderland rooted in Florent’s heart.

But life is life. At the time he was about to graduate, his classmate Fabien Incardona asked him to set up a construction company together, and that was how his life went. His love of Italy became a joke he told to friends, an experience he used to impress clients or lovers, and a distant dream that could never fit in his busy schedule.

After the long tiring flight, Florent arrived at Florence Airport. It had been 9 years since the last time he went to Florence. Now he was no longer that callow, energetic college boy who could chatter about Italian architecture and landscape gardening for hours. When he arrived in Florence, everything was evocative of his college year he spent here; it seemed that nothing but himself had changed.

Exhausted by the overnight trip, Florent fell asleep in the taxi on the way to the hotel. It was actually a pleasant experience to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a row of beige and buff brick buildings with red roofs, the river on which the kayaks left bluish white ripples at its end, and the marble church on the opposite side of riverbank. This was much better a view than the one he saw in the morning of Brooklyn or Manhattan.

Once Florent settled down in the hotel room, he threw himself in the bed and fell asleep again. It was a bit noisy outside, but the chatting and laughing of the crowd were even very lovely comparing with the annoying blares of cars in Brooklyn.

When he woke up it was nearly 6 p.m. He wiped the sweat on his forehead, got out of bed, and flung wide the windows. How enjoyable it was, to lean out his upper body into the sunshine which was no longer dangerous at the time when the sun had declined and left the sky to turn violet.

At night it would be colder than daytime, so Florent took a jacket with him and went out in the street. The June dusk of Florence was glamorous, strangely reminded him of the onion soup his mum used to cook for the family when they were still a family. He loved the sense of fulfillment he felt when drinking the soup, but his mum hardly ever cooked it after they came to New York.

With the help of Google Map, Florent came to the restaurant he was supposed to meet the estate agent and the landlord.

Yes. Here was the Italian restaurant in Florent’s memory: red checked tablecloth under a white smaller one, the colorfully painted porcelain plates on the wall, and dark brown wooden ceiling hanging a glowing crystal chandelier that lit up the entire restaurant. Knives and forks were laid on the table, next to which the wine glasses were placed upside down. The enticing smell of T-bone steak triggered his appetite, but as the landlord first appeared in his eyesight, another kind of appetite was provoked in Florent's mind.

Speaking of landlords, what came into Florent’s minds were the mid-aged men who dyed their hair black to reveal their aging (though when they smiled, the wrinkles on the corner of their eyes betrayed them), or the erect, imposing old ladies who were proficient in negotiation and often made him compromise. Florent did have met youthful clients, but they were usually some flippant spoiled kids who had just inherited the land.

Florent worked with landlords 365 days a year. Nobody knew about them more than architects like him—but now, his stereotype was thoroughly collapsed. Imaging a landlord of a manor in village of Tuscany, Florent expected that man to be a fat farmer or a stiff old gentleman, not Antinous, David, or, _Mikelangelo_.

“Nice to mee’ thu, Misder Mothe. This is Misder Loconte.” the real estate agent greeted him in a thick Italian accent and then turned to the landlord, “Misder Loconte, this is Misder Mothe.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mothe. My name’s Mikelangelo. Mikele, for short.”

Florent felt like Mikelangelo just punched him on his forehead. Goddamn it! Seriously, British accent? That fucking beautiful British accent? Where the hell did he learn that?

“Nice to meet you, Mikele. Just call me Florent.”

They all sat down, though Mikelangelo looked confused.

“I thought you are…American?”

“Oh, I am. And I’m also French. Well, that’s a long story.”

“I’m willing to hear it.” Mikelangelo smiled.

Oh, man. Please, tell me this is a date instead of a trade meeting, Florent wished in his mind, trying his best to suppress his “appetite”.

By god, how would he describe this blondie in front of him? What Florent first beheld, in fact, was Mikelangelo’s hazel eyes withdrawn so suspiciously under their brows, and his hands sheltered themselves, with certain resolution, into the pockets of his black flat-front pants. He, with a Roman-God visage and hairstyle reminiscent of the gracious Renaissance statues, was like a high spirit from up above, who despised him, a scoundrel, an opulent jerk who came from a mire of arrogance, rapacity and moral degeneration. Florent almost wanted to thank God that, after all those years of his sinful deeds, this angel was still sent into his life.

No. No. No. It must be an incomplete depiction of him; Florent realized that he was stunned and blinded by Mikelangelo’s beauty and decency. On a closer and more impersonal look, besides his placid but also dignified countenance Florent also noticed his agreeableness as a romantic Italian lad, and his aplomb as a landlord, a master and manager of a large manor. The confidence of a businessman was so familiar to Florent that even at the first glance he could perceive it.

What Florent was also able to perceive at the first glance—a quite intriguing instinct he owned—was to tell a man is gay or straight. It wasn’t a really special skill that he could boast about, but anyways, he had been quite accurate on it. Just unconsciously giving that person a look and he would give Florent the answer himself.

And Lord Loconte is not straight. He’s guilty. No question.

“I was born and brought up in France, near the River Seine.” Florent commenced. The real estate agent left as his mission was finished, and Mikelangelo rolled the sleeves of white shirt loosely.

“That's lovely.”

“Hum. At the age of 8 my parents divorced and I immigrated to New York with my mum. Now I'm still living in New York City.”

“I see. And what do you do, Florent? I suppose you must be very successful in your career.”

“I'm the cofounder and CFO of a construction firm in Manhattan. Well, I learned both Architecture and Marketing at university, so, you know.”

“Very impressive.” Mikelangelo raised his eyebrows, “Then why you want to buy a manor in Florence? Is it a vacation home for you, or just a land investment? What do you like about here?”

The questions from Mikelangelo broke the ice; Florent gushed over how Uncle Paolo affected him, how much he loved Italian architecture and gardens and his experience of studying in University of Florence. Maybe because these genuine words gained Mikelangelo's trust, he seemed less skeptical of Florent.

“In some ways it is an investment for me. I plan to live here after my retirement.” Florent said as he took a sip at the red wine.

“Retirement?” Mikelangelo was startled, “How old are you now, Florent?”

“28.”

“And you are planning for retirement now?” Mikelangelo looked even more surprised.

Florent curled his lips down, “Nobody wants to work in Manhattan for a really long time. Some may work until they are in their 60s, but I won't. It required too many energies, like every penny we earned are paid by our youth, our passion, the best things in our soul. It's a fascinating place, and I do like it; but it's not a place to enjoy life after I become old.”

“I understand your point. So you and your wife will come together? Or I mean, maybe your future wife.”

“I'm a bachelor, Mikele. And there will _never_ be a ‘future wife’ for me.” Florent replied wittily, “I'm gay.”

A shiver of panic ran through Mikelangelo; the deity now fell from firmament to earth and was at the edge of leaking his secret to a stranger who didn't seem to be gentle, or innocent.

“Oh.” Mikelangelo dipped his head and did not know what to say.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Forget about it.” Florent apologized for fear that he might offend Mikelangelo. “I think we already talked a lot about me, Mikele. Would you mind to tell me a little bit about you? For example, where did you learn your beautiful British accent? I know that most Italians don't even understand English much.”

“I went to a university in England. Now I'm running a restaurant in Florence, and this is why I decided to sell the manor. I don’t have time to take care of it, neither does anyone else in my family. The reason I asked a lot about you is that, the manor is an inheritance for my family. For us, your disposition is even more important than the price you offer.”

Florent nodded his head in agreement, and forked a bite of steak, “So did I pass your test?”

“Barely.” Mikelangelo bantered.

“Really? What are you dissatisfied about me then?” Florent blinked and asked jokingly.

“Your manner, Florent. You’re too young and…”

“Excuse me, what?”

The answer was so unexpected that Florent almost couldn’t believe his ears. How he interpreted this judgment was that not only was Mikelangelo saying he was literally young, but also he was implying he’s immature. Even if Mikelangelo wasn’t serious, he was a little upset. “You say I’m too young? May I know _your_ age, Mikele?”

“Me? I’m 35.”

Florent looked at him wide-eyed, “Oh, my god. I thought you’re under 25!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank you.” Mikelangelo replied readily.

35? Florent found it unbelievable. God must felt that it would be a pity to age this beauty; vigor and splendor of youth did not seep out of his body, like he is a scarlet rose that would never blight.

But will he be granted to pluck the rose? Florent asked himself.

After the meeting, Florent went back to hotel and lied on bed. He closed his eyes; vicissitudes of this ancient city flitted through his mind. The empire with a great combination of flourish of art, science and humanity, an ultimate expression of what human culture and civilization could achieve, a single name that indentified who himself is, was Florence. When the assassin stood on the top of Florence Cathedral’s cupola, threw back his hood of cloak and took the aerial view of the whole city*, there was but one sentence in his mind:

I came; I saw; I conquered.

 

* This is an “allusion” of a shot in the computer game Assassin’s Creed 2.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Mikelangelo drove Florent to his manor in a small town in southern Florence. During the trip Mikelangelo asked Florent if he would mind him playing some music in the car; Florent said no, of course, since he liked most genres. But it turned out that he just couldn’t appreciate Mikelangelo’s music taste: a bunch of accordion music, and Scarborough Fair? What? And Mozart? Old people, nay.

At any rate, he had to admit that these music pieces are pertinent with the landscape around: the green hills interspersed with country houses under the cloudless blue sky, the little flying dust raised as the motorbikes passed through, and the soaring Cypresses alongside the winding road altogether compose a symphony of nature. The car climbed up on a hill and minutes after stopped in front of a Tuscanian villa with a typical cube shape and a balcony extended out on the second floor, forming a small pavilion beneath at the front of the house. Purple flowers next to the front door were stretching their stalks upward along the rustic stone walls, reaching up the darkened red rooftop.

The scorching sun was almost beating down on their heads, but Florent paid no attention to the heat: as he turned back, the stunning view of a huge orange grove unfolded, and the refreshing scent of citrus was pervading through the breeze.

“Unbelievable…”

Florent casted his eyes upon the view like a captain who saw the continent, like a vampire who marvelously enjoyed the beauty of sunrise again after living in the darkness for hundreds of years; when calling Florent to come inside, Mikelangelo noticed the awe in Florent’s eyes, soft but also profound. It’s hard to imagine such a haughty man would have a look almost like a pilgrim, Mikelangelo thought.

After greeted the gardeners and farmers and showing Florent around the villa, Mikelangelo started preparing lunch.

“Would you like to eat in the dining room, the backyard or the balcony? I don’t recommend you to have lunch in the backyard. It’s fairly hot outside and the empty swimming pool is not a quite good view.”

“Forse balcone.” (Maybe the balcony.)

“Va bene.” (All right.)

Florent went upstairs and sat under the umbrella in the balcony. Soon Mikelangelo came, holding a set of tableware and a bottle of wine; Florent stood up and helped him lay the table. Then Mikelangelo plunge and span the corkscrew into the cork.

“Our vineyard lay fallow for many years, but I think we must serve our guest the homemade wine. Therefore,” he pulled out the cork, held the cork in hand and turned his back. Seconds later, he turned back and put the bottle in center of the table. “I picked one old bottle from the cellar—Pietro, from 1998.”

The nectar was poured into two slender glass goblets which had exquisite silver stems.

“Wow, that’s 10 years. Fabulous.”

“Please enjoy. I’ll go and cook some food for us.”

“OK. If you need any help, just call me.” Florent said habitually.

“Oh, please, Florent!”Mikelangelo grinned, “You are my guest. Let _me_ serve you.”

After Mikelangelo left, Florent mumbled to himself, “Serve me, hell…I love this man.”

The dark orange wine streamed down through his throat, spreading its aroma inside of him; sweet odor of fruit and the feeling of intoxication wandered in his body; it might not be the best wine he had tasted, yet with the comforting sightseeing and the beauty who served him, it was luxurious indeed.

Unexpectedly the phone ringing broke in Florent’s ease, and when Florent saw the name of his Marketing Manager on the screen, a rising anger was kindled.

“I’m really sorry Florent—”

“OK, Laurent. Tell me what you think that is _so_ urgent, urgent enough to disturb my vacation instead of asking anyone else who’s sitting in the office right now!”

“I’m so sorry but… it’s now at 6 a.m. in New York. I—I just had a meeting with Mr. Kiyota, he decided to cancel the contract because—Uh—”

“Go on.” Florent stood up, pressing his wrist against the handrail.

Laurent knew it was a big deal and Florent would tear him up if it came to naught because of him. Hearing Florent speaking so calmly, he even felt more nervous.

“Yes. For some reason Mr. Kiyota became quite pessimistic; he believed that the housing bubble would burst soon and there would be recession this year—”

“Oh, recession! In 2006 some said the estate crisis is coming, and last year and every year! Economists always have all kinds of predictions and it should not be the reason you’re losing the deal! What did you say to him?”

“I told him that it’s very unlikely, almost impossible for the housing price to plummet. It may decline a little but will rise up again. But he said he was already played and robbed by Goldman Sachs—”

“Bullshit—”

“Yes, I guess he probably lost money somewhere and can’t afford building the mall. But Florent, I’m calling you not only for reporting the loss of deal. I’ve read some articles about housing mortgage system and I think it’s really strange and…scary. I hope I can talk to you after you come back.”

“For sure.”

“Fuck!” Florent exclaimed after he ended the call, “Goldman Shit—”

In the meantime, he found that Mikelangelo was standing behind him and putting the plates from the tray onto the table. He must have already heard his words and…

“Sorry, I was…” Florent dropped his cursing immediately, “…dealing with…business.”

“Never mind. Oh, I didn’t find many good ingredients in the storage so I just made simple spaghetti Bolognese and avocado salad.”

“OK. Wonderful.”Florent awkwardly bumped himself back into the chair and made Mikelangelo sniggered at him.

“Does it taste good?”

Florent chewed slowly, closed his eyes like he was drown in the savor of every bite, and then asked, “Mikele, are you the chief of your restaurant?”

“No. I’m not a cook. Why?”

“You know what, Mikele, you can sell this, just spaghetti Bolognese alone,” Florent pointed at the plate with his fork, “at 30 bucks in Manhattan and there would be a lon—ng line of people waiting outside of your restaurant every day.”

“You mean 30 dollars? Hah, I’m glad to hear it from a Frenchman. Hail Pasta!” Mikelangelo raised a fork of spaghetti in midair and said proudly.

“Well…That’s not what I mean. I love your cooking, but—” Florent cleared his throat, and jestingly acted like he was very serious, “French cuisine is still the best in the world.”

“Maybe someday you can cook a French cuisine for me.” Mikelangelo tilted his head and challenged Florent.

“Oh, unfortunately my specialty is a German dish…”

“What is it?”

“Fried calf liver. With onions and bacon, and sometimes potatoes.”

“Interesting. I must try it if you would offer me the chance.”

“Come on! You would laugh at me; see how professional you are and I barely cook by myself!”

They chatted lightly during lunch, almost forgetting their real purpose of meeting each other. In the afternoon, Mikelangelo guided Florent to check the orange orchard, the vineyard, the olive grove, and finally, the rose garden.

Passing through the rose arch pergolas which formed a long corridor, they came into the garden, at the center of which was a small square pool with a fountain statue of an angel. The cobbled path encircled the pool, and beside the path were shrubs of roses, though most of them already withered due to the season.

“This rose garden is definitely the part that I take most care of. It might sound crazy to you but… I feel a personal attachment with this specie. I’ll take an example…Have you ever been said by others that you are alike a kind of animal?”

Wolf. Lion Scar. Florent said in his mind.

“Yes.”

“It’s that sort of feeling, like it resembles you and even symbolizes you. When I come close to them, I feel like they’re like my brothers and sisters.” Mikelangelo sat down on the footpath by the roses and picked up the pedals. “Pretty strange, huh?”

“Not at all. I can feel it in you.”Florent knelt in front of him, “You are Flora, the goodness of flowers, of spring, and of youth, decked in roses, the king of flowers.”

Florent raised Mikelangelo’s hand to his own lips, and Mikelangelo led him to kiss his hand.

“I didn’t know you can be so poetic, Florent.” Mikelangelo’s voice was as soft as he was the real Roman goddess. Devoured by his glamour, Florent leant forward, wishing to caress him, but Mikelangelo trippingly escaped away.

“You’re a man of love, but you’re not West Wind, Florent. Not gentle enough.”

(West Wind: Flora’s the husband. In Roman mythology, the god of west wind courted a nymph but she escaped away from his embrace. Finally she was embraced by him and became Flora, the goddess of flower. The god of west wind is said to be the gentlest one among the gods of wind.)

 

Though a bit disappointed, Florent stood up and confessed, “Yes, you’re right. In front of you I’m just a peasant, a fool.” He followed after Mikelangelo, “My nymph, I’m your votary, your slave—”

“I’d rather call you a nympho, Florent.” Mikelangelo remarked jocosely and then disappeared behind the holm oak trees. His shadow blended into that of the trees, leaving no traces for Florent to catch him.

“Don’t play hide and seek with me, Mikele.” Florent soliloquized, “You’re gonna pay for it.”

While thinking of how to “make him pay for it”, suddenly he heard Mikelangelo’s cry.

“Florent, come here! See what I’ve found!”

He quickly trotted to the place where the voice came from, and saw Mikelangelo standing in the plain land of rose bushes and holding a crimson rose garland in his hand.

“Well, that seems really suit you.”

“No, I want you to wear it.”

“No way!” Florent tittered, “Or you do it first.”

“Fine.”

Mikelangelo put the garland on his head. At that exact moment, Florent immediately fetched his phone from his pocket and took a photo of Mikelangelo.

“You little tricker—give it to me!” Mikelangelo rushed to him, trying to snatch at the phone, “Delete it, right now!”

“Give me a kiss,” Florent slyly proposed while swiftly dodging from Mikelangelo’s attacks, “a French kiss, and I promise you I’ll delete it and let you check.”

Mikelangelo stepped back and looked surprised for a second, but then kissed him zealously.

It was shameful for Florent, that he became the one being shocked or even say, petrified in his own flirty hoax. He anticipated Mikelangelo to sneer at him, roll his eyes at him or hit him instead of literally giving him the kiss, and even satisfying his requirement as…a French kiss.

Mikelangelo first brushed his tongue against his lips ever so slightly; then he invaded into his mouth as prompt as a leopard, ripping his prey fiercely. Florent gripped no advantage from his own height, indulging Mikelangelo to take the whole control. He was telling himself in mind, “This is no good! This is no good! ”, notwithstanding the aggressiveness and wonderfulness of Mikelangelo’s kiss and the odor of red wine in their breaths trammeled his sense. Even after Mikelangelo retreated from his mouth and walked away, Florent was still immersed in the excitement.

“Keep that photo, Florent.” Mikelangelo glanced back and cooed.

“What? Are you serious?”

“I’m not a product you cell. Don’t make deals.”

It was like a slam on Florent’s face, an arrow shot into his heart.

“Then what’s the point of…kissing me?”

His question made Mikelangelo laugh, “I’m Italian, kiddo!” he said as he punched the rose garland onto Florent’s head.

Watching Mikelangelo strolled in the crowd of rose bushes, Florent became speechless and unconscious like he was bewitched. He grabbed the garland off and stared at it for a while.

“Mikele!”

He ran to Mikelangelo and called, still feeling that his mind had already fainted away.

“What?”

“I’m under your spell, Mikele.” As he said, he clownishly threw the rose garland into his own hair.

Mikelangelo chortled recklessly; his laughing was spreading across the field, like a lion proclaiming his kingship of the land; he wiped his lips, and thought for a moment.

“Come with me, Florent. I’ve got something to show you.”

The sultry summer breeze could not quiet down Florent’s pounding heart; they walked through the paths bestrewed with rose pedals, and behind the tall box hedges, was a cylindrical white pavilion with a dome and a long bench inside.

“What a fantastic idea to put a pavilion here… it’s like a surprising gift for the visitors.” Florent commented, “Do you know who designed it?”

However, Mikelangelo neglected his academic question and hurriedly drew Florent to come into the pavilion and sat down on the bench. Under the cover of the dome, the metal bench touches pleasantly cool; flower vines tangled around the pillars up to the top, longing for the sweetness of sunshine.

Since Florent hadn’t awaken from his “spell” yet, Mikelangelo took his opportunity; he rode on Florent’s thighs, and put one foot down to stand on the ground so that he could kiss Florent more easily, who was completely lost in his magnetizing eyes. He sucked and nibbled Florent’s lips, while his hands were caressing Florent’s back.

“I damn love your back muscle, Florent.” Mikelangelo said, “It’s the wings of devil.”

He unbuttoned Florent’s shirt and sneaked his hands underneath the cloth to scratch Florent’s back. Yet that’s where Mikelangelo made his mistake.

He unintentionally reminded Florent that he was a _devil_.

Although Florent was still letting Mikelangelo kissing his collarbone, the sleeping dragon was aroused, and felt pretty angry of the handsome knight who rode on him. Florent slowly moved his hands on Mikelangelo’s buttock and nipped it.

“Ow! Don’t—” Mikelangelo instinctively threw himself into Florent’s arms, holding him tightly to hide from the attacks, but Florent continued what he was doing.

“Stop, Florent! Ah…”

“How dare you;” Florent said slowly, and nips turned into a spank, “How dare you to enchant me and lure me into your trap.”

“I didn’t!” Mikelangelo struggled, though the result was just another spank coming as a punishment.

“I don’t want to argue about this, Mikele. But remember,” Florent said coldly, “every trap you set for me will always become traps of your own. Now, apologize to me.”

“What the hell? Apologize for what?”

“The one you just denied, Mikele. If you’re sincere enough, I’ll try to be gentle, though don’t expect too much: I’m _not_ West Wind.”

“Wait a minute! Gentle? Of...doing what?” Mikelangelo grew hyper panic.

“Oh, come on. Don't act like a teenage boy, Mikele. Fuck you, of course.”

“Damn you! Leave me—”

Florent held him and pushed him on the ground, “You think I’m kidding? It’s _you_ who first crossed the line, Mikele; I’m gonna do it anyways, no matter what you say.”

“No, Florent—I apologize, OK? Now stop—” When Florent stripped off his shirt and shorts, Mikelangelo realized it was really, really serious. He had no chance to escape, or it was the suffocating pressure from Florent’s indifferent voice and demonic look that crushed his courage to defy.

“Too late, Mikele. I won’t change my mind.”

“Please, Florent! I’d do anything else for you, please. Not here. Not now.” Mikelangelo begged in a sobbing tone, lying naked under Florent.

“No. Now take a breath; it relieves the pain.”

“Florent! Florent—I’m sorry. I won’t ever trick you again. Please—” Now Mikelangelo was truly sobbing; Florent saw his hazel eyes filled with tears, and smiled.

“You promise.”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Then remember your words. And you said you’d do something else for me to compensate me, right? What do you wanna do?”

“Uh…” Poor Mikelangelo was overly frightened and didn’t have a single idea in his mind at present.

“Well, Mikele.” Florent raised Mikelangelo’s chin by his hand as if he was examining something, “I found that you have a very, _flexible_ tongue.”

Mikelangelo trembled for a moment.

“You know what I mean, don’t you? Now be quick.”

Florent sat back on the bench with his legs falling apart; Mikelangelo crawled to him and knelt between his thighs. Looking down into his tearful eyes, Florent found that he didn’t look afraid at all. For some others like Bambi, he would think that, “Oh, little scarlet.” However, seeing Mikelangelo act like so, he thought in his mind that, “Yeah. This is my nymph.” Carnality is part of gods’ and goddesses’ nature, and part of roses’ nature. Without it, he is no longer divine.

 “Oh, my nymph, my angel…You’re so good…” Florent sighed heavily and rubbed his blonde hair. Mikelangelo’s tongue traced and licked from tip to root, and reverse. He was looking for the point which could drive Florent crazy, the rhythm which would crush his mind; obviously it didn’t take long for him to find, so he sucked harder, letting the swollen member intruding deeper in his mouth. Florent groaned sharply and almost could not meet Mikelangelo’s movement; then he put the rose garland on Mikelangelo’s head again. Mikelangelo was startled and stopped. He gazed at Florent, waiting for his command.

“I said it really suits you.” Florent stoke his cheeks and stood up. Mikelangelo started caressing Florent’s calf muscles with his hand; the roses in his hair were glowing, as well as the lust in his beautiful eyes. Florent came deep down Mikelangelo’s throat; tears hung on Mikelangelo’s eye leash slipped down. He let out a long, deep howl and released in Mikelangelo’s mouth.

Mikelangelo collapsed on the ground, swallowed, and made no sound. Florent was surprised that he drank up it all without spilling a single drop on the floor; he buttoned his shirt and his breeches, squatted down, and cuddled Mikelangelo. The white fluid on the corner of Mikelangelo’s mouth was wiped out by Florent’s thumb.

Then Florent turned to the back of him, touched his breast, his nipples, down to his stomach, and finally held his erected shaft.

“Florent…” Mikelangelo grumbled, and stretched his neck as if he was inviting Florent’s kisses and bites. Florent stroked his jaw with another hand, and put his middle and index finger into Mikelangelo’s mouth; Mikelangelo began to suck them, though now Florent deprived his ability to speak.

“Does it taste good, Mikele?” Florent asked as he expedited the movements of his hand down there, making Mikelangelo give out more moans and takingly writhe his body. He lifted his arm to reach Florent’s nape to ask for a kiss, which seemed to be an answer “Yes” for Florent; he replaced his fingers in Mikelangelo’s mouth with his tongue.

“You enjoyed it so much that you begrudged to swallow them all, and left some in your mouth, right? You want me to fuck your mouth.”

Mikelangelo’s body suddenly became rigid; he inhaled deeply and then cried out.

“Florent—” Mikelangelo freed himself and spilt some fluid on Florent’s hand; he held his hand and carefully licked it clean. Florent pecked on his cheek as a reward and got up.

“Dress up. It’s time to go.”

But Mikelangelo gripped Florent’s hand firmly with his eyes downcast.

“What’s the matter, Mikele?”

Mikelangelo just held his hand more firmly.

“You wanna say something?”

Mikelangelo nodded.

“So, what is it?”

“I…I can’t say it out.”

Florent grinned, and squatted in front of him again.

“Look at me, Mikele.”

Mikelangelo raised up his head with a tempting expression glittering in his eyes.

“You want me not to leave, right? You want me to change my schedule and stay here tonight.”

“No, Florent. I want you to stay longer.”

Florent smiled, “Ok, milord. I’ll leave only when you ask me to. And listen: from now on, you don’t have to call me ‘Florent’; call me Flow.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how wines are named, so I just put a random name. Please don't mind it.


	3. Chapter 3

Mikelangelo was almost out of patience when Florent finally claimed that he would take a shower and go to sleep. Now his mind was pretty blurry because of the brandy. He didn’t expect that after dinner Florent would chat with him in the backyard for such a long time; he had to drink with him and now regretted to get so drunk.

Curling up on the sofa, he fell half-asleep. The serenity at night amplified the sound of water beating the tile floor in the bathroom. Morpheus was pulling him to fall into his dreams; a bunch of filmy scenes flashed in his mind, and all of them seemed involved with Florent.

Anyways, his goal was attained: Florent must be even more drunk than him. When he was playing accordion, Florent drank a lot alone.

“Mikele?”

“Um…” Mikelangelo woke up, finding himself accidentally missed the chance to join in Florent in the shower.

Damn. I shouldn’t fall asleep here…

“Which room should I sleep in tonight?” Florent stepped out of the bathroom with a bath towel tied around his waist.

Oh, my god…Mikelangelo glimpsed at Florent’s body, wetted his lips and said, “The master bedroom. It’s upstairs, on the right hand side.”

“OK.”

Florent clattered upstairs, and Mikelangelo went into the shower room. In the warm vapor he was smothered by the thrill of spending a night with Florent; he fancied of what was about to happen, and even just thinking about it made him hard. After he dried and wrapped himself in the bathrobe, he excitedly rushed to the front of the bedroom and knocked the door.

“Flow, it’s me.”

“What’s up, Mikele?”

What? Why is he asking?

“Open the door.”

“Um? Do you want anything?”

Oh, of course. I want _you_. Just open it!

“No, just…let me in. I wanna sleep with you.”

“No, Mikele. Go back to your room.”

“What are you saying? It is my room!”

“It’s mine now. You told me so. Leave me some privacy.”

“What? You’re talking like crazy, Flow!” Mikelangelo was irritated, “You promised me!”

All of a sudden Florent opened a crevice of the door.

“You’re so annoying, Mikele. I only promised you to stay, not to sleep with you. Leave. I’m gonna sleep soon.” Then the door was slammed closed.

“Florent! Florent! Cha cazzo! (Fuck!)”Mikelangelo shouted and banged the door. He felt so mad at Florent, but he didn’t know what to do next. He definitely would not leave.

“I won’t go away until you let me in, Florent!”

“Then wait till tomorrow morning! You’re ridiculous!”

What the hell was going on here? Mikelangelo asked himself. Is his request ridiculous? Isn’t it what they BOTH wanted? Or it’s merely his own assumption that Florent want it? Mikelangelo’s fury turned into frustration. Why Florent sounded like it was so natural that he wouldn’t sleep with him? What went _wrong_?

“Flow?

“Flow, can I ask you for it? Please, let me in. I want you.”

There was no reply.

“Why are you torturing me like this? Why you shut the door for me?

“Did I do anything wrong?”

There was still no reply. His frustration grew into fear; the idea pumped up in his mind scared him.

“Don’t you like me, Flow? Why are you refusing me?

“Answer me.”

The long silence in the air killed his hope. He leant despairingly on the door and started whimpering. Intoxication made him more emotional than usual.

“But I like you, Flow…” Mikelangelo muttered in a low voice, hoping that Florent didn’t hear it.

However, Florent did, and was nearly at the edge of losing control and come out to pick up Mikelangelo. He eventually managed himself not to do it at once.

He didn’t intend to hurt Mikelangelo’s feelings and considered it to be just another thing insane he had done after he was drunk. As Mikelangelo inebriated him, he strangely felt that Mikelangelo only saw him as a fuck buddy, a piece of meat. It came out from nowhere; it might just be nonsense, but the problem was that he couldn’t refute it. Is there a more cliché way to hook up than alcohol?

If it was true, how could he ever do anything to Mikelangelo? He was his Flora, his goddess; what a _disrespect_ it is to let him be merely a fuck buddy of his! He truly likes him. He knew Mikelangelo was different; he was the dream that he dreamed since the time Uncle Paolo told him about Italy. No, he was not a dream; he was the one he wanted and could reach, the missing part of his puzzle. He wouldn’t accept Mikelangelo’s request before his suspicion was eliminated; to fall in love with a one night stand lover would be very, very painful.

Not long after, Florent noticed some noise outside, which was like an electric current running through his body.

It was Mikelangelo’s moaning.

What the heck is he doing out there? Florent was blown up and could not rest himself anymore. No! I can’t let him do it to me! I can’t.

“Mikele!” Florent bellowed and opened the door; Mikelangelo was sitting on the ground, still moaning eagerly.

“If you’re no’ interested in me, Flow,” Mikelangelo drunkenly grunted, “I’ll make you be.”

The blood drained from Florent’s face; it was far beyond his endurance and he wanted to satisfy both of their craves, but—

He roughly seized Mikelangelo’s hands and dragged him inside; when he shoved him on the ground and tied his hands with his black tie, Mikelangelo was smiling rapturously like he knew what would come next.

In spite that he was absolutely wrong.

Florent dragged him to the foot of the bed and bound his hands on the bed leg with his leather belt. Once Mikelangelo opened his mouth and try to speak, Florent stuffed a crumpled tie into his mouth.

Then he walked away, out of Mikelangelo’s sight.

“You lost your mind, Mikele. I won’t let you lead me by the nose.” Florent spoke, “I know Italian people like to be straightforward, but do you know how much fun you missed by doing that? My nymph, I think you tasted little of the joy on earth.”

Mikelangelo was struggling and shaking the bed grumpily; he strived to kick the bed but failed.

“Be quiet!” Florent berated, intimidating Mikelangelo by his deterrent voice. Mikelangelo became still.

“If you want me, Mikele; then play in my way. You’re free to try to challenge me, but again I warn you: every trap you set for me will always become traps of your own.” Florent unfolded and put a clean bath towel on Mikelangelo.

“Take it to keep warm. Good night.”

He switched off the light.

Because the curtain was drawn closed, the room was in sheer darkness. Mikelangelo snorted and daren’t to make a sound; he was afraid to exasperate Florent again. Tears formed in his eyes; he suddenly felt himself so pitiful. Since he was lying on the carpet and covered by the towel, it was actually not so uncomfortable, and gradually the drowsiness overcame all other feelings. He thought he would just fell asleep in such a way.

Crazy thoughts and illusions swarmed into his mind: he imagined that when he woke up Florent was already gone and he could never see him again; he imagined that all the roses withered and the garden was covered dead leaves; he sat in the decayed garden and cried like a little child…

“Mikele.”

Florent’s calling abruptly shocked him to wake; he wanted to speak, but the tie in his mouth blocked him to. In the darkness they couldn’t see anything, which intensified both Mikelangelo’s fear and desire. Florent unbound the belt and took the tie out of his mouth; Mikelangelo groaned out and arched his back to sit up with his hands still tied together. He felt more raring than ever.

“Flow…”

Florent knelt on the ground and shifted Mikelangelo’s body to sit on his thighs and to face him. Mikelangelo leant against the bed and put his tied hands on Florent’s scruff. Kisses fell on his lips; the warmth of Florent’s hands wandered around his back, going down. He couldn’t see Florent, yet he could feel the skin-to-skin touch which burned him to want more.

“Mikele. In the garden you wanted to tell me something, do you remember? And you said you couldn’t say it out. Now say it to me.”

Mikelangelo began to whine and the constraint of his body position impelled him to feel more drown in the hunger. He could feel no sense of shame now.

“Fuck me, Flow. Fuck me…”

“As you wish, milord.”


	4. Chapter 4

Florent dizzily got out of bed; clatters of frying pan and plates came from downstairs, indicating that Mikelangelo was making breakfast in the kitchen. He drew the curtain open, and the outside world was glowing with the bright sunlight, which cleared off the cloudiness of his memory.

Holly crap!

The details recurred to his mind, with a sense of guilt burst out; he undoubtedly went way too far last night.

How can I face Mikele today? The tie, the dirty talks…gush! Florent blamed and scolded himself for a thousand times in mind; he hastily dressed up and ran downstairs, praying that Mikelangelo wasn’t hurt by him physically or mentally.

“Mikele, I’m so sorry for what I’ve done—”

“Oh, Florent. Good morning.”

Mikelangelo closed the refrigerator and greeted. The coffeemaker beeped, so he put down the jar of jam on the table and took out the coffee pot, “Would you like bacon or sausages?”

“Uh…either is fine.”

“Then bacon…”

“Hey, Mikele,” Florent put his hands on Mikelangelo’s shoulders and stopped him, “don’t you mind what happened last night? I—I treated you so rude—”

“No. But um…”Mikelangelo whispered with his face blushed, “do you still remember that I touched myself behind the door?”

“What—no. I, I only heard your voice. I mean—after you came in the room I—oh, fuck.”

Florent suddenly noticed the bruises around Mikelangelo’s wrists. He daren’t to look at them again as if they would burn his eyes.

“I’m so sorry. Does it feel painful? Do you need any aid?”

“Not necessary. It aches sometimes, but it’s alright. You don’t have to feel sorry about it, Flow.” He sent a raspberry into Florent’s mouth, “It was wonderful.”

Florent bit through the succulent fruit; the sweet and sour juice sparkled in his mouth. He sat down on the kitchen stool, watching the little bugs and ants crawling on the balcony floor.

“Mikele?”

“Hum?”

“I can’t help wondering…how stupid I was, to forget everything in Florence…to deceive myself that I’m not much in love with this city and ‘have to’ stay in New York. It feels bad to regret about how I spent my youth, the best years of my life.”

Mikelangelo put plates of bacon and egg on the table and sat down beside him, “Are you sure that you regret about that, Flow?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you made the right decision. I’m unable to tell whether you…lived happily in New York, but I feel that you belong there. Not Florence. You told me about your uncle Paolo, your love of architectures in Ancient Rome and your days in University of Florence. Nevertheless, to take root here is totally different. I see your ambition and your energy, which just match the prosperity in Manhattan. You deserve to stand on the mountain peak.

“Certainly, you can move to Florence and start some cool business here. But then it’s…a waste. To exploit your full potential you must fight in New York. To be the Boss, the King. Life in Florence doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh, Mikele! Can you imagine how disheartening it is that these words come out of _your_ mouth…You’re truly speaking your mind?”

“Of course, Flow. I have no reason to lie about this.”

Florent sighed, finished the last drops of coffee, and had a long sigh again.

“I guess you’re right. I’m just…daydreaming.”

“It’s no problem if you visit here sometimes a year. A great holiday resort. And if you, maybe with your family or friends, would come to my restaurant, I’d be grateful.” Mikelangelo smiled reassuringly and patted Florent’s shoulder.

Florent said nothing, only gazing Mikelangelo in the eyes, he stretched his hands and combed his blonde hair with his fingers; he was amazed. The purity of Mikelangelo’s beauty made him question his view of world. Now the world…was in the duality of dream and reality.

The long silence washed away their concession to life and the “dominant strategies”, remaining the passion and attachment to each other. The key point for Florent was not where he lives, but who he lives with.

“Oh, Mikele…” He kissed and kissed Mikelangelo from his hand to his arm, “Can I kidnap you to Brooklyn and lock you up in my apartment so that I can love you every night?”

“You’re so scary, Florent!” Mikelangelo laughed happily, “But that’s what I like about you. The power in you intoxicates me.”

He held Florent’s face and pressed his lips on his. Their love appeared to be so fragile in the face of reality; still, the knot of strings that bonds them was the same strong as the reality that tried to part them: a goddess and angel, a votary and demon, whose destinies were already intertwined ever since the first instant they encountered.

“Mikele, is there a possibility that you could…move to New York and open your restaurant there? We’d be glad to have a luxury Italian restaurant.”

Mikelangelo shook his head, “No. I had my own reason to choose this place, Florent. I won’t leave.”

“I know, but—oh…so there’re only 6 days…what can I do…”

“At least you can enjoy these six days, right?” Mikelangelo hugged him.

Florent was quiet in his arms. He realized this was almost a refusal from his Flora; after his pilgrimage, his life would come back to the way it used to be, another relationship that couldn’t go deep. Their orbits crossed as a wonder of universe, though how large would the gravity be? Would it be strong enough to change everything?

Florent felt horrible. He was a caveman who, for the first time in life, saw the beautiful shimmering of a shooting star. It enamored him, yet it only lasted a blink of eyes.

However, the beauty forever remained in his soul. He knew the meteor shone just for him; he didn’t conquer it, rather, he was conquered.

After that morning, his time left to spend with Mikelangelo became very precious for Mikelangelo had work in daytime. Even worse, sometimes he would arrive home very late after mid-night, thus basically they could do nothing except sleep. Restaurant manager is never a cushy job, Florent understood, but hope seemed slinking away from him, as if he lost the qualification to pluck the rose.

Finally, on the fifth night Mikelangelo unusually came home early without too much weariness from work. Florent was imbued with expectancy in that he had various plans of what to do in such a night; he turned on the air-conditioner and changed into his black shirt and vest with his golden chain-shaped collar pin. Attire determines the attitude.

While preening himself in front of the dressing mirror, he heard the sound of turning the doorknob; Mikelangelo entered, wearing a long silk gown which was fitting with his slim body.

At first sight it was like a dress, but it wasn’t womanly at all; rather, Florent would infer that it belonged to an emperor, or a dignitary. The color of grey violet, the texture of silk, and his half wet blonde hair were luxury, luscious, and just perfect. A silk rope enfolded his fine waist, and Florent wanted to untie it to break Mikelangelo free from it.

But not yet.

Mikelangelo sat beside the bed, watched him and was amused by his attire, “What is this? Are you going to a cocktail party?”

Florent strolled to him. The clink of his leather shoes was clear and steady. He dropped his right knee before Mikelangelo like a devout prayer, “No. I’m preparing for a ceremony.”

“What ceremony? Where?”

“A worship ceremony here in your bedroom.”

Mikelangelo laughed, “You worship me?”

“Yes, I do, my goddess.” He kissed Mikelangelo’s hand, “Will you accept my devotion?”

“Hum…” Mikelangelo delightfully pondered, “It depends on whether I would be satisfied with your ‘ceremony’.”

Florent was glad that Mikelangelo let him lead the play, “Then come, my goddess. I promise I won’t let you down.”

Mikelangelo stood in front of the mirror with Florent clinging to him behind. The dressing mirror, with a golden baroque frame, was embedded in the wall, reflecting Florent’s earnest gaze at him.

“Look, Mikele.”

“At what?”

“Yourself. See how beautiful and dignified you are.”

Mikelangelo rolled his eyes at Florent in the mirror, “So this is what you call ‘worship’? I don’t see any sincerity of it.”

“This is an important part, dear. Just do as I say.” Florent cooed as he gently unlaced the ribbon around Mikelangelo’s waist.

“Fine.” Mikelangelo smiled and looked down at the black suit coat lying between the wall and his feet, “Maybe we should put this coat away? I’d better not to step on it.”

“Don’t, Mikele. You’ll need it.”

Florent started to kiss him, though he still didn’t stripe off his gown. Florent’s arm held his waist, and the other hand walked through his thigh and between his hips…

“Florent!”

The unexpected force tucked in his body made him scream and uncontrollably knelt down; the fingers were stirring him and spreading the pain to plunder his strength. Florent’s arm barred him from leaning to anything that could uphold him; he was shaking because of such unbearable position.

“Put your hands—off with me—” Mikelangelo stammered, “I need to…hold, hold something—”

Florent, also kneeling behind, freed his arms but gripped his jaw in order to force him to cast his eyes on the image in the mirror.

“Now, look at yourself; how beautiful and lascivious you are, my goddess!”

Mikelangelo hated to see it, even thought it only lasted a few seconds; he, tearful and half naked in the luxury silk gown, knelt for Florent, who clutched him like a master, was decent in black suit, flaunting his power over him.

“Rest your hands on the mirror. If you fell on the ground, I’ll punish you. Open your thighs.”

Florent released him. He fell on the mirror, realizing it was a very awkward distance: he couldn’t curl up on the ground to hide from the obscene image in the mirror due to Florent’s command, nor could he press himself on the mirror to cover his eyes since it was too far—Florent compelled him to watch it.

“You bastard!” Mikelangelo shouted, looking at Florent in the mirror, “I’ll not forgive you for this—”

However, even before he finished the sentence, he squalled like a wild animal and began to cry heavily; he wanted to ask Florent to stop, to take his thing out, yet his breaths were so hard that he wasn’t able to speak. In the mirror he saw his miserable tear-washed face and Florent enchanted in his worship.

“Relax, hon.” Florent noticed Mikelangelo’s eyes begging for mercy, so he stripped off the silk gown, bent down to kiss his back and rubbed his nipples to comfort him. Mikelangelo gradually stopped crying, and mildly groaned out.

“Why stay cold, my queen? Why not let the fire ignite?”

Mikelangelo heard Florent’s words and closed his eyes. He felt like he was on a slanted glass and was sliding down; the glass was too smooth for him to grab anything to stop from falling down. In the end, he gave up and began to enjoy the falling. He straightly looked into Florent’s eyes in the mirror, and Florent caught what he meant; he started to move and pushed Mikelangelo onto the mirror over and over.

Outside of the house the gale and the crash of thunder shook the window glass; Florent hoped the coolness would blow over their heat, but the windows were shut so it wasn’t helping at all. Sweat hung on the tip of Florent’s nose and his chin. He flipped back his bang and took off the suit vest and the collar pin, while Mikelangelo panted for rest, and finally got the strength to speak:

“What kind of worship it is, Florent? I don’t get it.”

After Florent unbuttoned his shirt, he continued and answered Mikelangelo:

“The way I worship you, Mikele—is to make you suffer—from pain—and pleasure. I’m not dragging you down—from heaven to earth; I’m dragging you—down from heaven—to hell.”

Mikelangelo screamed out, drained by Florent’s “ceremony”; hopefully the fluid did not stain on the glass, or later he would feel so shameful of it. Even though he knew Florent hadn’t finished yet, he gave up, curled on the floor and buried his face in the suit coat.

“Tell me, why you intentionally avoided me these days?”

“I…If I don’t…uh…Flow…I can’t help thinking of you when’m at work…That would ge’ messed up…”

“I don’t think that’ll help, Mikele. It only makes you—want more, and this is why—you came tonight.”

“Yes, Flow…You controlled—occupied my heart…my mind…”

In the long growling of thunder, Florent completed his worship. He held up Mikelangelo, who was almost fainted and was babbling some Italian words that Florent couldn’t recognize.

He quietly put Mikelangelo on bed and covered him with a blanket; opening the window, he felt the cool wind striking his face, making it hard for him to open his eyes. He closed the window lest the rain would come inside the room. What a strange night! The freak weather, the joy they had, the odd tranquility in the room after the crazy sex, all together puzzled Florent.

Someone was shouting to him from outer space through an alien form of sound in an alien language. Yet he heard nothing, understood nothing, lay beside his lover and fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Florent had a weird dream. In his dream he was walking in a forest and met Mikelangelo, the god of this forest. As he was about to hug him, the land he stood on raised up and became a mountain; on the peak he was calling Mikelangelo’s name but only the birds flying pass by were twittering to him like the ringing of his cell phone. What dumb birds are they?

Oh,no. Florent realized it was not bird’s sound. His phone was ringing.

“Damn…What time is it…”

Florent grabbed his phone without opening his eyes. He squinted at the screen. It was Fabien’s call.

Although it was only 6 a.m., which was midnight in New York, Florent wouldn’t have a single blame and would pay full attention: if the CEO calls him, it must be something big.

“Hey, Fabien. What’s up?”

“Sorry to call you up so early, but this is urgent. I need you to come back as soon as possible. I changed your flight just now; it departs at 9 a.m. Pack up and leave at once.” Fabien spoke so fast that Florent almost didn’t catch him.

“What—Ok, I’m leaving. What happened?” Florent jumped up and dragged his business suit out from the luggage.

“Remember what Laurent mentioned to you on Monday? The mortgage?”

Florent was digging in his memory; he remembered it, though he only thought that was a fuss.

“Yes. Any problem?”

“It’s not a problem, Florent. It’s a disaster. Louis Hallonet, he went bankrupt. Plus many of our deals were cancelled because of it. The money they owe us will never be paid. I’m afraid the market turbulence is coming.”

For a second Florent’s tongue felt numb because of dread.

“Florent, the nightmare Laurent told you became real. I’m not sure we can get through this…I need you, Florent…”

He even lost the power to encourage or console Fabien; the word “bankrupt” meant too much for their company—they would owe tons of money to lots of corporations and people.

“I’ll come to the office as soon as I land. Bye.”

He wanted to shout, to curse, to punch on something; the storm came without clear warning and splashed on them thoroughly. _People just get fucked by the fate sometimes,_ once Florent had thought. Now the wheel of fate was crushing his soul, and fate is fair to everyone: there’s no way to escape. Fretful of the horrible accident, Florent took out of his anger on the stuff he threw into his luggage.

After he was ready to leave, he gazed at Mikelangelo sleeping in peace. His feet stuck on the floor; his tears gathered into a flood.

I must say goodbye.

But on that point I definitely would lose my tongue.

I must say it. I must explain to him what happened.

I must tell him we shall stop.

I must be calm and dispassionate. I must keep my sanity.

I must…I must…

Fuck! I could do none of it! None! None! I shouldn’t leave without a word! Hell, why must I leave? Why must we PART and FORGET?

Florent lay back on the bed and gazed at Mikelangelo. If this is the final chance, Florent thought, at least let it last longer.

Chilling wind was dragging and pushing the curtain like it was making fun by manipulating its soft fabric. Florent wiped his tears; all of a sudden, he found that he almost forgot who he was. His pride, his wealth, his shadow and filth, the empire he and Fabien dreamed to build…they all felt so hazy in his memory that he even doubted whether they were once real. Was that him, the young money who was void of soul, or another Florent Mothe people knew?

And now this flaunty but sincere American lover also felt like a phantasm. Florent was imbued with bewilderment: if both of the lives no longer belonged to him, what would be his?

Maybe it’d be a new life that he never had before.

“Mikele.”

He held Mikelangelo possessively in his arms and spoke.

“It’s so hard to say goodbye to you, my love. But I…have to.

“My boss just called me and something went bad in my company. I’m afraid that I’m not going to buy your manor. It’s an emergency and I don’t know what will remain after such a crisis…I may never come back, and may never contact you again.

“Even though, please don’t think of me as a carefree man who just come by and go. I leave you only because I’m wrapped into a hurricane and had no choice. I love you, Mikele…

“Damn, feels like it’s the first time I ever said so to people except my parents…But…

“Your music, your cooking, British accent and most importantly, your spirit so alike a deity drew my heart to drop knees under you—you’re the angel of mine.”

Florent’s voice trembled, and warm tears slipped down on his cheek. He exhaled, realized it was time for him to sober up from his emotion, and resumed.

“Well, however to some extent, I _should_ leave indeed. You deserve better. I’m too barbaric. Even if I were to be crowned, I’d just be a vulgar tyrant of the mundane world. Find your West Wind, my goddess. Goodbye.”

He kissed his love, more gentle than ever he did. At some time Florent didn’t notice Mikelangelo woke up and heard all his words. Mikelangelo gripped his shirt as if he was craving him not to go.

“Florent! Florent…” Mikelangelo pressed his face to Florent’s breast with tears flowed down. His weeping gnawed Florent: he hated himself for hurting Mikelangelo like so.

After a while Mikelangelo raised his head and looked around; he came to the bedside table and took a rose from the vase. It was a gorgeous royal blue rose.

“Take it, Flow.” Mikelangelo stretched his hand and offered it to him.

“I…cannot take it, Mikele. I can’t carry it on the plane.”

Mikelangelo lowered his head and hesitated for a moment. Tears dropped on the rose as if they were dews. Then he tore a petal off, “Then take this, Flow! Put it in a book! Nobody will find it.”

Florent took the petal with his shaking hands. Different from all the roses in the garden, blue roses are impossible to be bred naturally. It’s dyed blue. So desperate was it for him to think of the meaning of it.

“Does it mean…impossibility?”

“No!”Mikelangelo’s voice quivered with agitation, “It means miracle, Florent. It means that we could achieve what used to happen only in a blue moon.

“Whatever happened or would happen, no matter we will meet again or not, Florent,”

Mikelangelo checked his sob, and continued:

“never lost your passion.”

Kiss fell on Florent’s lips like fireworks lighting up the twilight sky. He couldn’t subdue his emotions anymore, fled away from the house without saying anything more.

This was the final glow, Florent told himself. The abyss of night comes.


	6. Chapter 6

“The entire investment-banking industry was sinking fast…whole economic system is still in jeopardy.”

 

“Finance wrecked everything, said Dr. Gracia, the subprime loan tried to create something out nothing, but nothing comes without consequences.”

 

“The recession is still spreading globally; Unemployment in U.S. and Europe rises to 10%. Many companies continued to lay off employees, and it’s going to be a tough Christmas for the jobless.”

 

Mikelangelo turned off the TV. He was bored by the bad news throughout the past 3 months. Everyone was in panic. People lost jobs, couldn’t borrow money from the banks, couldn’t pay their loans, watched their firms going bankrupt…the global tsunami brought them down.

It influenced his business, absolutely, yet the news just frustrated him for he couldn’t see a way out. He wondered when things would go back to normal.

Never did he think that ever in his life would he spend his Christmas Eve lying on the couch and staring at the old clock on the wall.

Yes, that was the truth. He was alone in his little apartment in the city.

He regretted refusing his friends’ offer to go to the party. He regretted that he didn’t come to his parents’ house in Venice. He regretted that he, still, had never given a call to Florent Mothe.

It might be the one-thousandth time he clicked Florent’s name in his phone’s address list. Just a message of “Hi, how is everything going?” became harder and harder to be spoken out as time elapsed. That Florent never contacted him either was why his courage was dying away day by day. He already grew sick of his regression and blames. But he can’t help it.

It is 11:30 p.m. 11:40. 11:50. 11:55.

Fireworks shrieked and shouted above the city of Florence; windows of his apartment were reddened by their light. It’s 12 p.m. The bell of Florence Cathedral rang.

He shut his eyes, nonetheless he still couldn’t fall asleep; he got used to sleep at 1 or 2 a.m. due to his job demand. Boredom and the hole in his heart vexed him; he couldn’t think of anything that would intrigue him. Once Florent described him as Flora, but now he just considered himself lead leaves buried in the earth.

He grabbed his phone, wishing he could browse Instagram to kill time. However, he bounced out of the couch for what he saw.

12 missed calls from Florent Mothe. The first one was at 12 p.m. exactly, which meant he called 12 times in 5 minutes!

Even before Mikelangelo’s shaking finger pressed on the name, another call came.

“Florent! Oh, Jesus Christ!”

Mikelangelo finally cried out and leant against the wall because of his excitement. Tears blurred his sight: how lovely it was to call in Christmas Eve, the perfect time of union!

However, there’s was only one sound on the other side. Wailing.

“Florent! Are you Ok? Florent?”

No answer. The heartbroken wailing went on. He didn’t know what more to say, so waited Florent venting his sorrow. A few seconds later the wailing slowly swooned.

“Mikele…”

“Flow, I—didn’t contact you ‘cause I fear you’re busy and you don’t want me to—I’ so glad that you call me now, but—you’re fine?”

“Oh, I’m fuckin’ so good!”

Florent sounded so drunk that Mikelangelo even had a illusion that he could feel the smell of alcohol through the phone.

“You’re drunk, Florent. Where are you?”

“I’m a— at home. My new home. Not the one I lived in when we met. I’m on the top floor. Pretty nice view. No fireworks. Just trashes and damn high buildings. They’re no higher than me, though. They’re too far away.”

“Are you alone, Florent? I think you’d better come inside. It must be very cold in New York.” Mikelangelo had a bad feeling. He hoped he could first calm Florent down.

“I’m not alone! I’m with you, Mikele. It’s so unbelievable to hear your voice again, dear. Maybe I’m already in the heaven with my goddess…”

“Oh, Florent. I’m overjoyed to hear from you, too. But—”

“You won’t be. I’m not gonna tell you the shit.” Florent interrupted him.

“Eh—ok. Then, maybe you first go inside and we can talk about…things you do wanna say?” Mikelangelo was a bit of scared by Florent’s tone.

“No!”

Mikelangelo shivered from the shouting.

“I’m not going anywhere! Don’t argue—with me! I didn’t call for just this, man! I want…oh, I feel so dizzy…why did I call you? Ah, so dumb…I tried to sleep alone tonight, just like all the other nights since I left you, but…all of a sudden I felt horrible of the idea that you were no longer sleeping beside me. The memory of the morning I escaped out of your manor stroke me. So I climbed up on the top floor and am sitting on the parapet; New York City is just under my feet—”

“What! Florent, get back to your room, right now! It’s so dangerous and you’re drunk!”

“Why? Why do I even care?” Florent cooed in despair, “I have no fucking reason to—

“You're the only reason I didn't kill myself…” He started crying again; the clinging of glass bottle upon the concrete wall confirmed the truth of Florent’s words.

Fright sunk Mikelangelo down. He barely could hold the phone. Yet he knew it was fatal; he had to do everything he can to save Florent. He tried his very best to manage his voice not shake.

“Oh, heavens…I'm so worried about you…” Mikelangelo cover his face with his palm, “Please, tell me everything. If you don't wanna say what exatly happend, at least tell me your—your feelings or—any thoughts you have…”

“I’m a—coward, Mikelangelo!” Florent abruptly yelled, “The work was jus’ an excuse. I daren’t to face it. I—daren’ to take courage and tell you that I believed I should stay.

“Now—splash! I’m stuck here in this shitty place! With all my debts and their blames on me! Hahaha! I was a fu’king stupid asshole…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…My life is taking my breaths away…

“Sometimes I dreamed, Mikelangelo, that I came back to the summer time, walking by the citrus trees in your manor…I dreamed that I became a waiter in you restaurant—I’m a damn-good waiter, you know. I used to work for a restaurant in a five-star hotel when I was at college. Oh,no. I won’t work for you, Mikelangelo. You’ll fire me because of the recession. How is your business going?”

“It’s—it’s fine. Not as good as it was before the recession. But I can’t stand it, Flow. They say I’m getting paranoid. I guess I just feel—this is so wrong. The whole world is insane, while I am so apathetic and—numb.”

“Why?”

“Well…If you go back indoors and get yourself a cup of hot water, I’ll tell you.”

“You little—” Florent chuckled, “Ok. You win.”

Mikelangelo exhaled as if he was almost strangled a moment ago; a faint smile appeared on his face, even though he was very anxious of being about to hear what turned Florent to be like so. A few minutes after Florent spoke again.

“Alright. I’m lying on my bed, looking forward to your story.”

“Good. I…well, I don’t know where to start. After your departure I cancelled the plan to sell the manor, and as you may guess, just let it rot. I’d rather let it lie waste than selling it. I’m not waiting for you to purchase it; I know you’re not going to, but so what? I told myself to keep it, for you.”

“Oh, my dear…” Florent sighed.

“And I don’t care if that’s pathetic. I believe you’re coming back to me someday. Oh, if you disagree, you can tell me right now. It’s totally fine, because I believe not for the sake that’s it would be true. I believed it only for the sake of believing.”

“You’re talking shit, man. Too sophisticated for me.”

“It’s not sophisticated. It’s just that my thoughts become a mess. I’m in a state of intoxication of angst, loneliness and…expectation. My friends say I’ll give up soon, but actually I’m getting more and more paranoid about it. I had the same nightmare again and again: I woke up from the bed, watching you leaving me. And sometimes I can freak myself by my own thoughts.

“Once I tried to go back to the manor to soothe my long for you. Nonetheless when I was on the way, I felt deep inside I’m rejecting this trip. There’s a voice scream in my head, ‘Don’t go there! Don’t go there!’

“And I truly turned back. I never came to there after you left. I have no idea why the physical space would link with another period of time so strongly. I felt it’s not right to miss the days we spent together while I’m doing so every day. It was hard to make a call to you ‘cause I know I shouldn’t appear in your life again, but it was also very hard to control myself from clicking your name in my phone. Even though the whole world crushed down by the recession, I don’t really care. My heart was stolen and I couldn’t pretend I’m fine with it. I’ve just been torturing myself and can’t let it go. ”

“So you didn’t find someone new?” Florent asked.

“No.”

“That’s so sweet. Sorry that you have been waiting for a crumbled loser who can’t even pay a flight ticket to meet you in Florence again.”

“No, Flow…Maybe things would be better next year.”

“God knows. I’ll still live in this miserable cell with bugs and rats, take three jobs at the same time and almost forget who I used to be. I see nothing in the future. I don’t even think I can make it through tonight…oh, Hell. I don’t know…After I talked to you, everything changed again…The only thing I cannot give up is something impossible, yet the impossibility kept me alive…Oh, fuck!”

Florent hung up.

“Florent! Florent!” Mikelangelo dialed back again and again; he was thinking of calling the police. Florent was clinging on the edge of a cliff, and at present Mikelangelo was his only help hand. Talking may not be enough; he thought he must do something more effective.

“Oh my…Florent! Are you there?”

“Yes, I am.” Florent was sobbing on the other side.

“Tell me; tell me where you live. Your exact address.” Mikelangelo sounded determined.

“What? Why?”

“I’ll come to you, Florent. I’m booking ticket to New York.”

“No! Don’t, Mikele! Don’t come!”

“Please, Flow.”

“No, no! I don’t want you to see how awful and pathetic I am!”

“Why you’re calling me tonight, dear? It’s because you are asking for help! You don’t have to worry about the self-esteem thing; this is an urgent situation. You need this! I need you, too! I can’t sit here, knowing that you’re living in hell. I will just stay a few days.”

“This is crazy…it’s crazy…”

“But it’s worthy. I love you, Florent. Please allow me.”

“Oh, this is the worst part…”

“What?”

“We still love each other…”

 


	7. Chapter 7

The city was freezing. Snow covered the fancy or classy buildings, whose pride and pretension were half concealed by the force of chill and white. Mikelangelo was astonished by the landscape of downtown Manhattan; the power of money was intangible yet overwhelming in the air, igniting the ambition of everyone passing by. While appreciating the beauty and fascination of this wonderland of greed, he soon slid into the other side—The Bronx, an ordinary American district with old buildings and bold graffiti on the street walls.

After getting off the car, Mikelangelo took a deep breath and entered the brown apartment block. During his trip, Florent had called him to apologize for what he said in the Christmas Eve and that he wouldn’t be able to pick him up in the airport because he had a fever. However, Mikelangelo thought he’d rather thank Florent for getting a bit of crazy that night, or they may never think of meeting again.

“Hi, I’m on the stairs already. Are you at home?” Mikelangelo phoned.

“Yes, just come.”

“Ok. Do you feel better today?”

“Honestly, no.” Florent grinned, “My head aches badly. And maybe I’m too excited right now.”

“Oh, dear. I’m coming to you. It’s four-0-nine…four-o-seven…yes.” Mikelangelo pressed the door ring, “Your house number is funny: 404 not found. But we finally find each other.”

When the familiar tall figure came out and hugged him, he almost didn’t recognize his man. He looked paler than before, with his eyes red and swollen with weeping.

“I like your new hairstyle.” Mikelangelo caressed Florent’s soft black hair. It was only a bit longer than before, but turned to appear a lot more gentle and modest.

“Oh really? Actually I almost live like a caveman now. Come in.” Florent wrapped his arm around Mikelangelo’s waist and they entered the room.

Literally, there was only one room besides the laundry room and the bathroom. No kitchen. Just a combination of bedroom and sitting room. (If it could be called as a “sitting room”, Mikelangelo thought; there were merely a table, two couches and a TV.) It became understandable for Mikelangelo that why Florent got so broken and depressed; when he first came to the U.S., as what Florent told him, he and his mother lived in a very nice place in Manhattan; and he was sent to the best private schools and universities full of other spoiled kids. This was a life Florent had never experienced or imagined.

Mikelangelo sat on the bed in silence, looking around as if he was examining everything surrounded. Florent passed him a mug of hot tea, which was warm to hold in hand.

“I’m so ashamed to show you my living place, man. How I wish I could invite you to my old place in Brooklyn.”

“Yeah, making me look like a mistress of this big guy in Wall Street, groaning in his king-size bed.” Mikelangelo bantered.

“Hey no, you’re not my mistress. And trust me, not everyone in Manhattan is a jerk.”

Mikelangelo put the mug on the table desk and suddenly felt curious, “Are you?”

“Well… yes, to be honest. Now after I became poor all the horrible things I’ve done started arousing me.” Florent lied on the bed, staring at the line of crack on the ceiling, “It’s like my life tears off my mask and exposes my hypocrisy to myself without any reservation. This is why I don’t want you to come, Mikele. It is not worthy.

“This is the reality about Florent Mothe: bankruptcy, loneliness and weariness. Florence is no more than a dream to me. So was my life as the stupid ‘CFO’. I just feel so horrible of myself. The damn pride of mine is but an illusion, a self-deception.

“You know what, Flow, it might be not as bad as you think.” Mikelangelo lied on the bed beside him, turned his head and their eyes met, “maybe this is not ‘reality’; instead, fate is trying to deceive you. I know how wonderful you are, Flow; from the first moment I saw you I’ve already told myself, ‘Ok, that he hung his sunglasses on his collar looks stupid but I know he’s successful and outstanding.’ In those days you always call me ‘goddess’ or your ‘Flora’, but in the worship you certainly ignored yourself.

“Many ‘West Wind’ passed by in my life, Florent, yet none of them won my embrace. It’s because that doesn’t even attract me. It’s boring. But you, Florent, you are _daring_ , _fearless_ and even _crazy_ sometimes. For many times, I’d say. Or no, you’re very sweet for most of the time.

“I don’t want to sound cliché, but I guess you know what I mean. Though you’re now in trouble, the spirit remains, right? ” Mikelangelo felt his face turning red, so he rose up and asked Florent, “By the way, may I take a shower here?”

Mikelangelo watched hope rising in Florent’s eyes, then was joy and finally was the wildness he was obsessed with.

“Certainly. I can’t wait.” Florent smiled.

And what’s coming after? What is Florent planning? Mikelangelo didn’t want to guess anymore. He’ll let Florent give him a surprise.

It was funny for Mikelangelo that his trip to New York doesn’t feel like a maudlin reunion but a bittersweet honeymoon. He swept Florent’s desperation away quickly and they even promised each other to keep in contact and wait for the “down time” to pass so that they may meet again. He even surprised himself that he proposed that he would be willing to move to New York and open a new restaurant; however, Florent persuaded him not to do so. The future was unclear, indeed, but he had trust in Florent. It would be a future to hope for.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There're many Italian in this chapter, but they are translations from Google translator. I don't know Italian at all, so I have no idea if there're mistakes. Please just read the English translations. (Sorry...)

On an unnoticed corner, a man in suit beckoned the waitress to come.

“Posso aiutarla signore?” (May I help you, sir?) A young woman with black short hair stood beside the table and asked.

“Parla inglese? Ciò lo rende più facile.”

(Can you speak English? That makes it easier.)

“Yes, sir.” The woman seemed a little confused but quickly hid her feeling. This gentleman could speak Italian very well, so she doesn’t see the point why it was “easier”.

“I want to see your manager.”

“What— did I do anything wrong, sir?”

“No, you’re good. I’m just joking.” The woman seemed to be a new member of the restaurant, so the man knew that would shock her. He took out a small bunch of blue rose and resumed, “Could you send this to your manager, Mr. Loconte? Tell him it’s from his—”

“I’m afraid that I will decline your request, sir.” This woman sounded playful with an I-knew-it-all-along look on her face, “I have to acknowledge you that Mr. Loconte have _many_ suitors and you’d better be ready to see him throw your flowers away. If you insist in sending the flowers, please go to his office yourself. This is not a part of my service.”

Italians are talkative even if they’re speaking English, the man thought.

“Wow, did he tell you guys to say that to any guests who wants to get close to him by taking a meal in his restaurant?”

“It’s just my friendly reminder.” The woman politely smiled, “Now would you start ordering, sir?”

But the man’s focus wasn’t shifted, “How do you like him, madam? If you don’t mind me to ask. What do you know about him?”

“If you do not wish to order food, sir,” The woman blushed with irritation, “I may ask you to leave.”

Surprisingly, the man laughed, “Oh, please don’t. If so, you are getting into trouble, madam. Your manager will not forgive you—”

“He is in love with somebody else, ok?” The woman was trying to control her anger and her volume but didn’t do really well, “He’s waiting for an American jerk to come back to him, so you’ve got no chance! Is that clear? Now I’m really going to call him to ask you to leave!”

The man wanted to pretend that he was upset but almost choked with his laugh, “Watch out your manner, madam. How can you call me a jerk since this is the first time we met?”

All of the woman’s anger leaked out, and astonishment, maybe also joy, fill her instead.

“You’re—you’re that—Oh, my god.” The woman swallowed and spent a few seconds to understand her situation, “I’ll send the flower. How, how should I tell Mikelangelo?”

“Tell him it’s from an American friend. Thank you.” the man smiled and passed the flower to her.

When the woman was about to walk away, she turn back and said to the man, “But I don’t take my word back, sir. You’re a jerk to let him wait for you for almost a year.”

He lifted his arms as if to submit to her accusation.

The woman rushed away but was caught by her boss, because she spent too much time on talking to the guest in the corner and was holding a bunch of flowers, which seemed very suspicious.

“Cosa fai, Rosa?” her boss asked her.

(What are you doing, Rosa?)

“Quell'uomo è il fidanzato di Mikelangelo! Lui è così sexy!” The woman said cheerfully and ran toward the back kitchen.

(That man’s Mikelangelo’s boyfriend! He’s so sexy!)

The conversation and the woman’s reaction amused the man. He was satisfied with these tricks he played with the lady for he did have fun and learn something about Mikelangelo from her.

But that was just an appetizer.

“Florent—Mothe!”

Mikelangelo trotted to him, throwing the roses on the table.

Here comes the first main course.

“Ciao, mia bellazza.” Florent stayed unmoved in the chair.

(Hi, my belle.)

“How dare you speak Italian to me now?” Mikelangelo growled in a low voice and grasped Florent’s shoulders; so furious was he that other guests in the restaurant thought he was about to shove Florent on the ground, “Why you are here? What have you been doing this week? I called you so many times and you replied none! When did you come to Florence?”

“What’s happening there? Are you guys not going to interrupt?” Florent heard a voice of a woman behind. It was probably a guest in another table.

“Uh, this is sort of a…sentimental situation that we…cannot involve in, madam. It’ll be fine soon. Sorry if it disturbs your dinner time.”

This is getting so fun, Florent thought, and now it’s the second main course.

“I finally got rid of my debts recently…So I came to Florence to get a new job and start a new life. Please calm down, hon. I’m just here to enjoy a meal and send the roses to you in passing. Sadly it seems that you don’t like them very much.”

“You shut the fuck up! It’s best that you explain everything to me; come.” Mikelangelo grabbed Florent’s wrist and was about to drag him away.

Florent stood up, but instead of following Mikelangelo, he dragged him back and pushed him against the wall.

“You can’t trick me to some wired places and take advantage of me again.” Florent whispered alluringly in Mikelangelo’s ear, “I can do the same thing to you like I did in the garden for this time, in your office. If you don’t want me to, now calm down.”

Mikelangelo felt his cheek burning; it’s so shameful to talk about such things in the public under the eyes of his employees. Nevertheless he had to admit it made him feel so excited. For a moment he even wasn’t sure if he wanted to refuse Florent to fuck him in his own office or not.

“Yes.”

“Good. Like I said, I got a job, but now I’m still living in a hotel. I wonder if I can share your place these days.”

“Of course.”

“Ok, let’s go.”

“What? I still need to work—”

“Go tell your colleges that you’ll continue to ‘work’ and let me leave _alone_. See what they will say to you. Even the new girl knows about your ‘American jerk’ and I bet you they all secretly came to glimpse what we are doing right now.”

“I…At least I have to tell them that I’m leaving.”

“Then go.” Florent patted his hips and Mikelangelo quickly flee away; a few minutes later he was back with a thick leather jacket hung on his arm.

“Shall we go now?” Florent asked.

“Um-humm.” Mikelangelo nodded his head.

As they were leaving, Florent suddenly turned back, “You forgot the roses, Mikele!” He picked up the roses from the table and walked toward Mikelangelo, “Convince me why I shouldn’t punish you for this.”

“What—it’s not my fault!”

“Bad answer. Terrible. I’m more convinced that I should.” Florent curled his lips down and took Mikelangelo’s hand to leave the restaurant.

Out in the street, after Mikelangelo put on his jacket, Florent kissed him in the shower of the roses’ fragrance; they have waited for this day for so long.

“Why you wear your black suits and the golden collar pin today? Going for a cocktail party?” Mikelangelo wittily asked.

“Well,” Florent leaned close to his ear, “your body will tell the answer.”

It’s time for snack.

 

THE END.


End file.
